


Amour

by Tokine



Category: Pocket Monsters | Pokemon (Main Video Game Series), Pocket Monsters: X & Y | Pokemon X & Y Versions
Genre: Confessions, Fluff, Kissing, M/M, warning for pancake death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-01
Updated: 2015-11-01
Packaged: 2018-04-29 11:33:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5125973
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tokine/pseuds/Tokine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes, confessions are cheesy and sweet and perfect.  This is not the case for Sycamore.  (But he'd sacrifice a pancake any day if it meant he could hear Lysandre say those three words.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Amour

There’s a laugh, and he feels the press of a chest around his back and arms wrapping around his sides.

“Why not go for it? How many times are you going to be the age of a dancing queen or of a trashy romance novel protagonist?” And really, that can be debated because not only is he past the age of seventeen (his ABBA addiction was strictly off limits for jokes, but that didn’t mean the other wouldn’t horrendously confuse the lyrics), novelists don’t make all of their main characters the same age and –oh. If he’s not mistaken, and rarely is he, that was a kiss pressed into the crook of his neck. The air is charged but held in stasis by some invisible boundary that it seemed Sycamore was attempting to cross.

“You speak of taking chances and that’s all you do? You’re a hypocrite,” It’s a exhale, really, vindictive juxtaposed with the dreamy qualities of the paradise the two are in every time their eyes meet or their bodies share the same space. One twist of the hips and a subtle readjustment later and they’re pressed flush against each other, Lysandre’s hold on him commanding despite his apprehension, and Sycamore’s hands are jittering personifications of tension, too unsure to even breathe a whisper of promise. There’s something hanging in the air, the heavy weight of something that should be, could be, if they wished it, and it’s more than enough to make Lysandre want to turn tail and run despite his calm exterior. 

“I suppose an apology is in order,” Sycamore drones, like he’s spilled coffee (for the fourteenth time since his first gracing the café with his presence, not that anyone is counting). “And as retribution, a kiss somewhere more suitable for the gentleman’s tastes?” Sycamore feels Lysandre’s smirk pressed into the curve of his neck. The hand pressed against Sycamore’s chest bunches in the fabric of his collared shirt, pulling tufts out of the pristine job he’d done of tucking it into his slacks, and he looks thoroughly disheveled for one thoroughly un-kissed man.

“Now, where should that kiss be?” Lyandre pulled their foreheads together until they touched. “Right here?” He tapped his left cheek pensively with one finger. “Maybe right here,” He intoned, using his hand to maneuver Sycamore’s to the sharp lines of his collarbones, savoring the feeling of the pad of Sycamore’s research-worn thumbs causing light friction against his skin. “Maybe,” Grabbing those hands again and feeling them run down his sides, those thumbs catching randomly on the ribs that protruded from his skin (and sometimes, when the photographer demanded it, nearly broke skin, and when he stretched and twisted could feel those bones rubbing away at the last few cells that separated them from the air), it was altogether too satisfying to hear Sycamore’s quick intake of breath as those hands settled on the curve of his hips. “Perhaps somewhere around here?” Lysandre was the physical embodiment of captivating, a siren dressed in Sycamore’s old hoodie from university days (a flare of possession- Lysandre looked good in his clothing) and sweatpants (a flare of promise- and Sycamore had the sense not to explore that train of thought when they were that close) and finally Sycamore could understand the meaning of want. 

“Anywhere you’d like,” Sycamore’s caught off guard by the voice that reverberates in the empty room, but every room seems lacking regardless when compared to the view from Lysandre’s arms. It’s heady, bordering on desperate, and they’ve barely even touched. Anticipation settles itself into the strength of his arms, and Sycamore mentally checks off a list of the muscles he feels straining to hold himself back from doing something, anything: bicep, brachialis, tricep, anconeus, and his mental list doesn’t even reach the elbow before the other has robbed him of his ability to think of anything. Lysandre’s hands are pulling off his glasses, and not even the short symphony of pattering they play on the marble can distract him from finally, finally getting what he wanted. Their lips meet, and Lysandre visibly relaxes into him, and oh, this is what he craved, this is exactly it, and if it’s him or the other that shivers it can’t be discerned. It was never one or the other’s space anyway, only their own shared existence, and now that they’ve finally – finally!- shared a touch a bit more meaningful than brushes of elbows Lsyandre’s utterly starved, ravenous, for more. It was easy- easier, really, because nothing was easy about being infatuated with Sycamore- to restrain the feelings that danced deliriously when fingers lingered or gazes met or when they encountered an older couple and it was the lingering thought in the back of their minds- this could be us. Somehow Sycamore beams brighter, Lysandre realizes with a guilty start, his eyes had slipped shut and he’d been so lost in the process of feeling that he hadn’t even considered Sycamore being uncomfortable or upset or maybe, he realizes, as Sycamore’s leaning in again with a happy roar of a laugh that wonderfully complements his delicate purr, maybe they’re just something that’s meant to be. Or not, Lysandre rescinds the thought as their noses bump but he feels ever so adored by the look in his professor (never his teacher in class, if anything he taught Sycamore how to function at a high class restaurant and to kibitz with his effortless charm for research scholarships. But maybe, just maybe, Sycamore taught Lysandre to smile, the kind the cameras never see) is giving him. 

“Augustine,” It’s a prayer really, and he’s never looked so angelic and quite so ruined by a couple kisses, but those eyes still meet his own. They implore him, and it’s always a rare situation in which Lysandre is overflowing with emotions and words but Sycamore is silent. “I’m really happy right now.” He hopes the other man hears every promise behind it. “Augustine, I think,” The screech of the fire alarm jolted the men from their reverie. 

“I swear to Arceus,” Not often did Sycamore swear but this couldn’t have come at a worse moment. They bumped against each other discordantly in an attempt to both turn the burner off and grab a wet towel. Five minutes and two collisions that promised the mark of a bruise later, the only things left in the kitchen were two half confessed to men and the radio humming out a French opera that Sycamore would only sing when he’s missing home. “So, you were saying something?” Sycamore did his best to appear suave and completely unruffled despite him being the reason for the untimely death of the pancakes on the stove. 

“I think you’re too much of a distraction when I’m cooking.” Sycamore turned away, cursing his terrible timing. Who knew how long it would take to live this down, and now he was in a weird murky area and gosh darn it he just wanted Lysandre to know how he felt. “Oh, and another thing,” Two steps, and the presence of Lysandre right behind his back caused him pause. “I love you too.”

**Author's Note:**

> I'm always a slut for comments


End file.
